Ginger in Australia
by Biggles Mad
Summary: Ginger flies solo in the Antipodes - and on a jaunt to the race that stops a nation in the company of a new friend, he spots an old enemy. By HRH.
1. Chapter 1

**Ginger In Australia**

**Chapter 1**

**An Inauspicious Beginning**

Ginger walked into the office and slammed the door behind him. Biggles looked up surprised as the young man stalked stiffly across to his own desk, his lips compressed, and sat down.

"What's the matter with you?" asked Biggles, astonished. "You've got a face like thunder."

"I've just come from Raymond's office," stated Ginger, fuming. "He's detailed me to work with that Australian woman."

"I'm not sure I approve of your referring to a superior, and an Air Commodore at that, by his bare surname," rebuked Biggles with a frown. "And by 'that Australian woman' I assume you mean Miss Pearson. What is the matter with being detailed to work with her? Why don't you want to help out with her research?" he wanted to know.

"Research? Huh!" scoffed Ginger. "I don't think it's research she's interested in."

Biggles looked mystified. "The university has a very good reputation, particularly in the field of leadership studies. The Air Commodore has been told our Lords and Masters want some good PR for the Department, where's the harm in that? You don't have to like the woman, just answer her questions." He paused as Ginger glowered. "You've only met her once. What has she done to make you feel like this?" he asked, thinking it was so out of character for Ginger to be unwilling to co-operate.

Ginger blushed, furious with himself for the betraying rush of blood to his cheeks. "I'd rather not say," he muttered, failing to meet Biggles' eyes and fidgeting on his seat, remembering the shock he had experienced when he had finally realised what Georgia Pearson was insinuating when she kept harping on about the fact they all lived together and had no female interest in their lives.

"Well, like it or not, you'll have to do it," concluded Biggles, unwilling to press him further in the light of his obvious unease. "So make up your mind to that and do it with as good a grace as you can manage."

Ginger nodded resignedly, still clearly unhappy with the situation.

"You get to go to Australia," added Biggles as an incentive. "It will be very pleasant in Melbourne at this time of year. Make a change from this eternal rain. I've never known such a wet autumn."

Ginger looked unconvinced and it took him some time before he recovered his usual good humour. In the ensuing days he made his preparations to leave with more reluctance than Biggles had ever seen him show about a trip abroad.

"Whatever Miss Pearson said to Ginger when she first met him," Biggles remarked to his colleagues, Algy and Bertie, as Ginger unenthusiastically departed for Heathrow to take the regular BOAC flight to Sydney on the first leg of his long journey to Melbourne, "she seems to have put his hackles up. I've never seen him like this before. What is even stranger, he won't talk to me about it. Every time I try to broach the topic, he just goes red and changes the subject."

"She must have touched him on a nerve, old boy," opined Bertie. "Perhaps she brought up something from his past - you know what these sociologists are like, always digging up old things."

"I think that's _archae_ologists," put in Algy with a grin. "But you're right," he continued. "Ginger might have been going to his own execution rather than a paid excursion to the sunshine at a dismal time of year! Something has definitely upset him. He's usually so enthusiastic about a foreign trip."

The object of their speculation settled himself into his seat on the long haul jet airliner bound for the other side of the world and considered what Biggles had told him. Ginger concluded Biggles was right, as usual. He did have to put his personal feelings aside and make the best of a bad job. The woman was only a research assistant after all, he mused. Her boss, Dr Jennings, with whom he would mainly be working, might be quite pleasant and Ginger hoped he would have a different approach to the qualities of leadership from that hinted at by his assistant.

The flight was boring. Ginger never felt entirely happy being flown by a stranger, although he knew regular flights had a good safety record and he discounted the crash earlier in the year that had involved this new type, the Comet, when it was heading for Sydney in Canadian Pacific livery. That was a matter of pilot error; having the nose too high and losing flying speed, according to the accident report he had read. Ginger had devoured the latest information about the innovative jet airliner when it made the inaugural scheduled passenger service and thought it rather historic that he was travelling in the same aircraft, Yoke Peter, that had made the first scheduled jet flight. He was very grateful that the high cruising speed of 724 kph cut the flying time considerably, even by as much as a half compared with piston-engined aircraft.

There was, however, something about not being in control that made him feel slightly uneasy. One of the air hostesses came to talk to him and he laughed softly to himself when he realised why, reassuring her he was not nervous of flying. Quite the opposite.

He tried to read but could not concentrate, still unsettled by what Georgia Pearson had insinuated when she had interrupted his lunch in the police canteen. The idea of drinking himself into a stupor did not appeal, his neighbour had his head in some paperwork and he himself felt wide awake, so there was nothing left to do but mull over the arrangements for his visit. He had had the choice of staying in Ormond College or being lodged with a member of the Faculty. Not knowing anyone in Melbourne, he had opted for the latter, thinking he would not fit in very well with student life, never having had the opportunity to experience higher education, or indeed, the benefit of much formal schooling at all.

More than once he wished the Air Commodore had chosen one of the others, but Biggles had told him many times that regretting what might have been was pointless, so he put it to the back of his mind. Eventually boredom took its toll and he dozed fitfully.

When he finally arrived at his destination, having changed to Butler Air for the internal flight from Sydney to Melbourne, he was glad to disembark and be able to stretch his legs. It was one thing flying with friends in easy stages, he reflected, being cooped up with thirty-odd strangers for a long time was something else entirely. Perhaps that was why some passengers overindulged in alcohol, he brooded. That and the easy availability of flights which enabled people who previously would never have dreamed of flying now to do so. He knew all about the tendency of people to drink too much when under stress.

When he reached the arrivals hall, he looked around, hoping that someone would meet him, but there was no sign of anyone seeking a lone Englishman. He looked at his watch and stifled a yawn.

"Mr Hibblethwhite?" queried a voice behind him.

Ginger spun round at the sound. He recognised the speaker immediately. Her eyes met his and he saw malicious amusement in them. He guessed his irritation and dislike were written all over his face and tried to stifle his instinctive reaction. He forced a smile.

"Miss Pearson - Georgia," he greeted her. "How nice to see you."

She laughed shortly at his discomfort. "You don't mean that at all," she told him frankly. "You're thinking, 'it's that damned woman again'."

Ginger had to laugh in spite of himself. He had indeed been thinking exactly that.

"Don't tell me," he murmured ruefully, "I'm going to be staying with you while I'm here."

"There's no need to make it sound like a death sentence," she rebuked him coldly. "I drew the short straw, too, you know."

She hefted his luggage, a small suitcase, with a snide remark about travelling light, and led the way to her car.

Ginger had to admit that Georgia drove well, manoeuvring the small car through the traffic with dexterity. She pulled up outside a large, Victorian house in what was clearly an affluent suburb and got out.

Ginger followed and would have seized his suitcase but Georgia got there first, leading the way into the cool interior. A large, ginger cat strolled across to greet her and rubbed its face around her legs. She tickled it behind the ears and murmured sweet nothings to it.

"Have you missed me, Ginger?" she crooned.

"What?" asked Ginger astonished, hardly able to believe his ears. Then he realised that she was still talking to the cat.

"That's going to be confusing," he remarked. "I shan't know who you're talking to."

She looked at him, perplexed. "I'm Ginger, too, in case you didn't know," he explained. "I'd rather you called me that than 'Mr Hibblethwhite'," he added with emphasis on the vowels.

"Then I'll have to watch what I say," she told him sourly. "I'd hate you to think any endearments were aimed at you."

He laughed good-humouredly at her venom and she looked at him sharply. "We're going to have to get along for the next fortnight," he stated practically, "so we might as well make an effort. You have to admit, you did start off on the wrong foot."

She looked reluctant, but finally owned, "I could have put it better, I suppose. But it _is_ a legitimate factor to include in our research," she added in a justifying tone, "whether it upsets you or not."

Grudgingly Ginger nodded. "I suppose so," he admitted slowly, "but I don't know much about academic circles."

"It is," she told him firmly and, considering the matter closed, let the atmosphere thaw slightly. An amicable truce was declared as the cat wandered off to sit on the porch, hoping against experience for a suicidal bird to walk within reach and Georgia introduced Ginger to her parents. Her father, a stock broker, eyed the young Englishman with curiosity and Ginger wondered uneasily what Georgia had said about him before she arranged his accommodation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Ginger In Australia**

**Chapter 2**

**An Unexpected Setback**

The following morning, after a good night's rest thanks to his ability to fall asleep anywhere, even in strange surroundings, Ginger was driven to the university Faculty in Carlton where Georgia introduced him to her boss. Dr Jennings proved, much to Ginger's relief, to be solely interested in the dynamics of leadership. He made no mention of personal relationships and moreover showed no inclination to pursue that avenue of research. Their meeting was cordial and Ginger began to feel that the assignment might not be quite so onerous after all.

Georgia had mended her bridges after the inauspicious start and he was amused to note that she suddenly no longer seemed prickly in his company. It was the cat, he reflected, that had brought about this unexpected volte face. As is the way with such animals, when Ginger, who really preferred dogs, ignored it, the cat decided he was someone to be courted. Consequently it sought him out everywhere, including his bedroom. He had appeared at breakfast two days after his arrival with the handsome ginger tom in his arms and Georgia had looked from him to the cat and back again open mouthed. "You've just broken a dream," she informed him, acutely aware that Ginger's hair and the cat's fur were a perfect match, but what the dream was she refused to say. Whatever it was, it must have been pleasant for she looked at him in a new light and her attitude to him acquired more warmth from that moment on.

The week passed quickly and Ginger realised with a shock that he only had five more days before his departure, but his plans were upset when the following morning he slipped on the stairs coming out of Dr Jennings' office, twisting his ankle. The university doctor was summoned and told him to keep his weight off it for at least a week. When Ginger protested he was travelling home in four days' time, he advised him against it.

"Change your ticket. You have three months on your visa. Another week or so isn't going to make any difference," the doctor observed. "You wouldn't be able to go back to work, anyway," he added practically. "Apply for some sick leave."

Ginger realised he was right and telephoned Biggles, catching him just before he went to bed. Biggles was pleased to hear that Ginger appeared to be back to his old self, and did not seem put out by the change of plan, reassuring him they could hold the fort quite easily in his enforced absence.

"How is it going apart from that?" Biggles wanted to know.

"Fine, thanks," replied Ginger. "I was all set to come home before I twisted my ankle."

"Can't be helped," returned Biggles philosophically. "Enjoy the rest. You've been on the go non-stop for some time now; it will do you good. Make the most of the sunshine. It's still pouring here, so you're not missing anything," he assured him.

Ginger acquiesced, acknowledging the wisdom of the advice.

Georgia did not seem at all displeased at having her house guest for at least another week, and what her parents felt about it, they did not disclose, but Ginger hated the inactivity imposed by his immobility and insisted on getting about on crutches, his ankle heavily strapped.

Even this amount of limited mobility irked him and in no time he began tentatively walking a few steps, although he limped badly.

Georgia tried to stop him, but he was adamant. "I'll go crazy, lazing about with nothing to do," he informed her.

"Then go swimming," she told him with asperity, concerned he might do more damage to his joint. "That won't do your ankle any harm. The Carlton Baths are quite near the university. I'll drop you off. If I can't pick you up, there are lots of ways you can get back; you can take a tram, a bus or even a taxi if you're feeling extravagant," she added sarcastically.

Ginger thought that was a good idea; he had packed his bathing trunks in case of having the opportunity to sunbathe so they proceeded to put the plan into operation. Over the next few days, he spent a lot of time at the pool, enjoying an activity which enabled him to get some exercise without causing any problems to his injured ankle. Occasionally, when she could slip away, Georgia joined him and was surprised that he swam so well. She remarked that he seemed to swim lazily.

"In my opinion," remarked Ginger, "apart from races, there are only four reasons for swimming; for pleasure, to get fit, to get somewhere because there is no boat and because your life is in danger. I'm not racing and the last two don't apply here, so I see no need to swim fast or furiously. I'm enjoying myself. Why knock my pan out?"

She had to agree he was right. When the need arose, he proved quite capable of swimming both fast and efficiently.

She also seemed fascinated by the scars on his body. "I've led an interesting life," was all Ginger would admit, deprecatingly, being reluctant to talk about the cause of the injuries and he changed the subject completely the moment she asked him about the faint, old ones on his back which looked as though they had been caused by something sharp like the tongue of a belt buckle.

Shortly afterwards, on a day when Georgia was busy at the university and was unable to collect him, he made an acquaintance that was to involve him in an unlooked-for adventure. The circumstances were not particularly auspicious. Ginger had not had to make his way back from the pool alone before, but Georgia had given him instructions. Unfamiliar with the system, however, he slipped up over the tram numbers. She had told him to take the number 6 and get off at stop 28, but in the confusion because the tram was about to leave, he failed to read the number completely, and took tram number 64. Stop 28, instead of decanting him in Armadale, put him in a completely different part of the city. He looked around and realised that he was totally lost. Moreover, his ankle was not as recovered as he had thought. It started troubling him as soon as he alighted from the tram. Feeling in some discomfort, he sat down to rest, hoping the throbbing pain would soon abate so that he could continue his journey and find his way back to his lodgings, when a woman with cropped hair, whom Ginger guessed would be in her thirties, stopped dead-heading her roses in the front garden of the bungalow beside the tram halt and addressed him.

"Are you alright?" she asked solicitously, seeing him rub his swollen ankle.

Ginger smiled despite the soreness. "Fine, thanks," he lied. "I've twisted my ankle. I just need to rest a bit."

She looked at him. "You're English," she remarked.

"Yes, how did you guess?" he returned with a smile.

"Your accent," she told him seriously, not appreciating his dry sense of humour.

Ginger introduced himself and found that his interrogator was called Vera Trelawney. They chatted for a while and when she discovered that he had come from the Air Police Department in Scotland Yard under Detective Air Inspector Bigglesworth, she exclaimed, "I've heard all about him! I work in the Melbourne Stock Exchange and there was a lot of fuss when it was announced the Barula Creek gold had been recovered1. My boss is English; he told me about that affair with Cronfeldt and Carstairs2 before the War."

Ginger smiled. "Yes, that's Biggles," he admitted. "I was there, too."

"Well, fancy that!" she exclaimed, looking at him with a new interest. "I don't know why I didn't make the connection before. I should have recognised your name," she observed, "it's not exactly common."

Ginger grinned. "Nor particularly easy to say or spell, either," he acknowledged.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" offered Vera. "If you're anything like your boss, you won't say no," she added with a smile.

Ginger, whose ankle had been bothering him more than he cared to admit, accepted gratefully, acknowledging cheerfully that Biggles was indeed exceptionally fond of a cuppa.

She held out her hand to help him up. Ginger noticed she wore a wedding ring. To his enquiring look she said, "My husband was in the Merchant Navy. His tanker was sunk by a U-boat."

Ginger drew in his breath sharply, having seen a petrol dump go up and imagining the effect of a torpedo on a ship full of high octane aviation spirit. His mind flashed back to the sinking of the trawler3 and he thought it must have been much worse on a tanker.

She nodded, her eyes bleak. "The Germans used to call it a tankertorch," she told him. "Not pleasant. We'd only been married a few weeks."

Ginger said nothing, not knowing quite what to say, but aware that he knew how she must have felt.

Vera helped him into the house, a big 1930s "California bungalow". Ginger thought the upkeep of it must be hard for a widow. The paint was peeling in places and it had a general air of needing a handyman's touch. He was intrigued to find she kept bantams. "It reminds me of the countryside and keeps me in touch with reality," Vera told him when he remarked on it, "although my neighbours are not so keen since the birds have made a few forays next door. The neighbours have no sense of humour," she added sombrely. "They even got a cat to deliberately menace the chooks."

When she had settled him on the sofa in her sitting room with a cold compress on his ankle, and gone off to make the tea, Ginger looked around. There was a photograph of a sailor and several pictures of a young boy at different ages on the side table. When Vera served him his tea, he asked her about the photographs. "My husband and my son," she told him. "Paul's away at school camp at the moment at Barwon Heads, just past Geelong."

To hide his surprise that she had a son, for there was no other indication of a child in the neat and tidy room, Ginger asked her what she knew about Biggles. He was quite astounded by her knowledge of what he and his boss had been doing over the last few years. It rather shook him that their exploits should be known half a world away.

She invited him to stay for dinner, intrigued to meet someone from so far away that she had hitherto only heard about.

"I really ought to let Georgia - the woman from the university that I'm staying with - know what I'm doing," stated Ginger, with a guilty conscience. He looked at his watch and was surprised how late it was. "She'll probably be wondering what on earth's happened to me."

"That's no problem," Vera informed him. "What's her number? You can ring her and tell her what you're doing. I'll drive you back."

When the arrangements were made, Ginger settled back happily to talk to his new acquaintance. He found her interesting and remarkably well informed, not just about everything that they had been doing before Biggles had rounded off the Australian operation, but also since. She had also closely followed the post-war trials of U-boat personnel that had been reported in the papers, he discovered. He supposed that was explained by her personal experience of wartime loss.

Vera prepared him a very tasty evening meal of roast chicken, which, to Ginger's surprise, they ate outside in the garden as the weather was warming up. She apologised for not having any beer in the house, but Ginger eased her embarrassment by telling her he was not very keen on it anyway. The bantams watched them with bright, alert eyes, secure in their moveable coop until they were let out to feed on the crumbs. Feeling relaxed and happy, Ginger thought that he had really enjoyed his evening and would like to return the hospitality, but did not know of any suitable eating places in Melbourne. He felt he could hardly ask Vera to recommend somewhere he could take her, so he sounded her out about where he could wine and dine Georgia in recognition of her hospitality.

Vera gave him a few recommendations and he thought Florentinos sounded suitable. Hesitantly he asked if he might take her there for dinner the following evening.

She was initially reluctant and Ginger naively hastened to reassure her he had no ulterior motive. She smiled at his youthful earnestness and asked him if he realised it was very expensive.

"I think I can run to it," he told her with a grin as she weakened at the thought of an unexpected treat.

After she dropped him off at Georgia's house with the promise to pick him up the following evening to take him to the restaurant, Ginger limped jauntily into the house, temporarily oblivious of the pain in his ankle, reflecting that the assignment had not turned out so badly after all.

1 See Biggles Works It Out

2 See Biggles & Co

3 See Biggles Defies The Swastika


	3. Chapter 3

**Ginger In Australia**

**Chapter 3**

**An Invitation to the Races**

Ginger idled away the next day on the sofa resting his ankle as penance for the previous day's overexertion. When Vera collected him he was pleased to be able to have something to do and somewhere to go.

Ginger introduced Vera and his hostess but sensed immediate antagonism. Georgia was curt but polite with the older women as they left and Vera remarked on it as they drove away.

"You seem to have upset her," she observed knowingly.

Ginger stared at her in amazement. "I can't think why," he remarked. "It was more the other way round." He blushed. "She has some rather strange ideas about me," he added uncomfortably.

Vera looked at him steadily and laughed. "You really don't understand women all that well, do you?" she told him, amusement colouring her voice.

Ginger shook his head. "You're right," he averred, "I don't understand women at all."

Vera changed the subject and asked him if he would like to come to the races the following week.

"It's the Cup," she explained. "The first Tuesday in November's a holiday. Everybody goes. It will be a good day out. Have you been racing in England?"

"Yes, I've been several times. The last race meeting I visited was at Newmarket, but I was working. We stopped some illegal traffic smuggling criminals in and out of the country from there,1" admitted Ginger. "There are two racecourses; the July course and the Rowley Mile. Wide open spaces and very flat, both of them. The wind whistles across the Rowley Mile as though it comes straight from Siberia. Some of the races start so far away, even the commentator can't see the runners," he added, grinning.

She looked at him to see if he was joking. "Seriously," he assured her. "The courses were designed so that the races could be followed by people on horseback and in carriages. You often get no sort of a view from the grandstand, except at places like Chester, which is only a mile round and where you can watch from the city wall without even having to pay."

"You'll find this very different, then," she informed him as they drew up at the restaurant.

Over the Italian meal, their conversation was wide-ranging. Almost against his will, Ginger found himself telling Vera about Jeanette2 and wondered why he felt compelled to put the record straight. Perhaps it was because talking to a stranger was easier than unburdening himself to people who knew him well; perhaps it was because he felt rather lost and lonely so far away from the comradeship he was used to and Vera was a good listener who, moreover, had shared a similar experience; or perhaps it was because he was still disturbed by what Georgia had implied, he did not know. Vera listened to him sympathetically as he revealed a side of him few people knew, although he divulged nothing about what had happened on the beach, other than that was where he had proposed to Jeanette. Vera was surprised yet secretly pleased that he had decided to confide in her something that was not common knowledge. "Love is a very much overused word," he commented when he had concluded his tale. "When it happens, it really changes your life."

"And you've never felt you wanted to make an emotional commitment to anyone else," she murmured understandingly, as they sipped their coffee.

Ginger nodded. "It was something unique and special." He sighed. "I suppose I felt I'd had my fingers burned and didn't want the same thing to happen again," he rationalised his reaction.

She looked at his hands from the association of ideas, although she realised he had not meant the phrase literally. They were smooth, not overly large and rather square with well-manicured nails. Ginger saw the direction of her gaze and smiled. "Only figuratively," he commented with a rueful grin.

He glanced at his watch. "I mustn't keep you up late," he murmured apologetically. "I know you have to work."

She took her cue and dropped him off outside Georgia's house with the arrangement that she would pick him up early the following Tuesday morning to take him to the races where they could have a picnic lunch. Ginger thanked her for her company and she put the car in gear.

"See you Tuesday," she called as she drew away.

Ginger waved as she disappeared, then turned and went into the house.

1 See Biggles Learns Something in Biggles Flies To Work

2 See Biggles Fails To Return and The Rite Of Passage


	4. Chapter 4

**Ginger In Australia**

**Chapter 4**

**Winners and Losers**

Ginger's ankle continued to improve after that temporary setback, and he filled the intervening days with visits to the university to tie up any loose ends for Dr Jennings' research and trips to the pool to keep himself fit and fight the boredom he always experienced through inactivity. Georgia, he noticed with amusement, was careful to pick him up each time. Clearly she did not like the thought that he might lose his way on a tram again.

Ginger, in turn, took Georgia to dinner at Florentinos to thank her for her hospitality and also, if he were honest, as a sop to his conscience because he knew she was not entirely happy about his association with Vera, although he acknowledged that there was no reason why Georgia should be unhappy about anything. The mutual antagonism between the two women that he had sensed the moment they met showed no sign of abating with further acquaintance. Ginger attributed it to the difference in their social standing.

The first Tuesday in November dawned clear and bright. The sun streamed into his bedroom window and woke him at a quarter to seven. Ginger lay awake, wondering what people wore to go racing in Australia. In England he would have worn a jacket and trousers with a collar and tie, so he supposed that a similar dress code existed for the Cup. He had packed a lightweight linen suit and assumed that would be acceptable. Somehow, although he had gathered it was an extremely prestigious event, from what he knew of those he had met so far, he could not see the citizens of Melbourne getting dressed up in morning suits and top hats as he had once been required to do when he accompanied Bertie on one of his rare visits to the Derby and Royal Ascot during the season. Ginger thought Melbourne's inhabitants seemed to share Biggles' dislike of dressing up. Besides, he reflected, it was going to be hot, in the seventies with up to 50% humidity according to the weather forecast, something he could never rely on in England. Indeed, he had been much amused only the other evening over dinner when Vera told him earnestly that the sun in England was never scorching and she found it hard to believe that they had any beaches there anyway.

Looking through the window after breakfast, Ginger saw Vera's car draw up. She got out wearing a lightweight cotton dress and sandals. The sun glinted on her mousy hair, giving it a golden tinge. He noticed an expensive looking wide-brimmed hat carelessly strewn on the parcel rack behind the back seat and thought that she would need some protection from the sun as it was already beginning to feel warm, not realising it was a tradition to wear expensive hats for the Melbourne Cup.

She came up the path towards the house and Georgia let her in. They exchanged greetings coolly and Georgia equally wished them a pleasant day without much warmth behind the conventional send-off. "Don't lose too much!" were her parting words as they set off down the path.

Vera slid behind the wheel, opening the passenger door for Ginger from inside. When he had taken his seat she told him there was a picnic hamper in the back and they would go early to find a good spot to park where they could have their meal later.

Ginger was amazed at the amount of traffic making its way to the racecourse, even at that early hour when the race was not due off until twenty past three. Vera had told him everything stopped for the Cup but he had not realised quite how true that was. He recalled that Brand, the manager at Barula Creek, had said his men only had one holiday a year when they went to Melbourne to see the Cup. As they went past Flemington station the first of the hordes were already beginning to stream out. Vera told him that the race trains ran every twenty minutes from the local stations Flinders Street, Spencer Street and North Melbourne, starting at 10.30 in the morning, and there was a tram service as well to accommodate everybody who wanted to attend the popular race meeting.

"There's a different Cup every year," Vera added. "The local jewellers make it up. This year it's valued at £550, they say." Ginger looked suitably impressed.

They pulled into the racecourse and found a pleasant spot where they could unpack the hamper and spread out the picnic rug. Others were doing the same on either side and Ginger looked at them curiously. He contrasted the more rustic feel of this event with the formality of the Royal Ascot picnic he had attended as Bertie's guest. Bertie's cousin's party had held a picnic in the car park, where the table and chairs had been unloaded from the boot of the Rolls Royce ready for the full-blown cold collation, complemented with iced champagne kept cool in silver buckets and drunk from crystal flutes, that was served by the butler on fine bone china laid on a sparkling white linen cloth. Conversation had been restrained and the ladies of the party had struggled valiantly throughout lunch to maintain possession of their hats in the teeth of a strong wind which threatened to send them cart-wheeling away across the car park at any moment.

Ginger thought the Melbourne Cup looked as though it might be a lot more fun as they took their time over the picnic and lay back lazily in the sun until it was nearly time for the first race.

"We ought to have a look at the horses in the paddock," suggested Ginger.

"Why?" asked Vera.

Ginger looked at her surprised. "To see what they look like; whether they look fit or not, if they're sweating or upset. Don't you usually do that?" he asked, puzzled.

She smiled and admitted that she was new to racing. "I've never been before, but it's such a spectacle and so typically Australian, I thought you ought to see it," she confessed a little sheepishly.

Ginger laughed. "I'm glad you did. Come on, I'll initiate you into the mysteries of the racecourse, then."

He took her to the pre-parade ring and explained that if they looked at the horses before the saddles were put on they would have a better idea of which ones were fit and ready to run because all horses tightened up once they were saddled and caught the excitement of the atmosphere. When he led her past the banks of roses to the parade ring proper she could see what he meant. Some of the horses were jogging around, tossing their heads and tugging their handlers along.

"They will be expending a lot of energy," explained Ginger. "You want to go for something that walks round relaxed like an old sheep, yet has that indefinable touch of class." The 'look of eagles', he called it, but could not describe exactly what that was. He tried to get Vera to appreciate it by pointing out examples, as Cub had done for him when he was learning about horses1. She looked at him as though seeing him for the first time.

"How do you know so much about horses?" she wanted to know. "I thought you lived in London."

"I do, but I was born in the country and I have a very good friend called Cub Peters, who taught me to ride," he explained. "He also taught me what to look for. That horse, for instance," he pointed to a bay with black points that was striding fluently round the ring, "walks extremely well. His back feet step well beyond the prints of his front and his tail swings as he walks. He's also relaxed, has a good shine on his coat and," he smiled sheepishly, "big ears." When she looked at him as though he was crazy, he shrugged and explained, "I don't know why, but horses with big ears, and particularly lop ears that flop to the sides, seem to be very genuine. If you want to have a bet, I should put your money on him, but don't risk much," he warned. "It's not fool-proof."

She took him at his word and risked a modest amount. Ginger was delighted when the horse romped to an easy victory. Vera could scarcely believe it and secretly Ginger doubted whether he would pick another winner all afternoon.

When it came to the big race, Vera wanted him to select a horse for her, but he was reluctant as he thought the first winner had just been a lucky fluke.

"I don't know the form," he protested as they watched the 21 runners circling the parade ring.

"I shouldn't worry about that, Blue," a little man beside him remarked, having overheard his protest. "This race is a favourite's graveyard."

Vera renewed her request so Ginger examined the horses again. Number 9, a brown horse, took his eye and he asked Vera for the race card details. "Wodalla," she told him. "Four years old and from barrier five. Do you want to know the trainer and the jockey?" she asked him.

Ginger shook his head. "Their names wouldn't mean anything to me," he murmured. He watched the entire in the paddock for a little longer and then suggested that she have a small wager on him.

As Vera hurried off to place her bet, Ginger surveyed the crowd idly. Suddenly, he stared, as he imagined he had caught sight of someone he recognised at the far end of the paddock. He looked again, thinking he must be mistaken, but there was no doubting that lean aristocratic figure with the monocle and long amber cigarette holder. Von Stalhein was talking to a small, dark-haired man with a moustache whose face also looked familiar, although Ginger could not place him.

Ginger edged closer, taking care to keep hidden among the crowd and with half an eye open for Vera's return. He did not want her to start calling him and attracting von Stalhein's attention.

As Ginger watched, the German concluded his business with his companion and limped away toward the grandstand. As he left, something white fluttered to the ground and Ginger quickly made his way across to pick it up. It was a small piece of paper with the word "Kosminsky" written on it. Ginger put it in his pocket to deal with later as he hesitated, torn between wanting to see what von Stalhein was up to and fearing to lose Vera in the crowd if he moved away from where she had left him. He went back to his original position and looked around in the hope of seeing her returning, but she was nowhere in sight. Von Stalhein had almost reached the grandstand and would soon be lost to view. Ginger stood on tiptoe despite the warning twinge from his ankle, trying to keep their old adversary in sight as long as possible. Subconsciously he heard a roar from the crowd and realised the race had started. Fortunately, von Stalhein also heard it and paused in his progress to watch.

Ginger heaved a sigh of relief as Vera rejoined him. "Quick," he told her, "I've just seen someone we need to keep an eye on. He's in the grandstand. Let's get nearer."

She asked no questions but followed him closely as he made his way through the crowd, careful not to be seen by the German who, Ginger was relieved to note, seemed to have his entire attention on the horses.

The noise rose to a crescendo as the runners approached and swept past the winning post. Vera clutched his arm as the loudspeaker announced: "And number 9, Wodalla, ridden by J Purtell, trained by R Sinclair, wins this year's Melbourne Cup!"

"We've won!" she screamed in his ear. "I can't believe it, we've won!" Momentarily distracted, Ginger looked away. When he looked back, von Stalhein was nowhere to be seen.

1 See Ginger Learns A Lesson


	5. Chapter 5

**Ginger In Australia**

**Chapter 5**

**From A View To A Check**

Ginger searched the stands but there was no sign of the German. Vera was apologetic, but Ginger wasted no time on regrets.

"Who was he?" she wanted to know. Briefly Ginger mentioned von Stalhein's adventures so far and their involvement.

"Aren't you going to tell the police?" she asked him.

"I've no jurisdiction here," he replied. "I was effectively on leave to help Dr Jennings with his research. I should have gone home last week and would have done but for twisting my ankle," he reminded her. "Now I'm officially on sick leave! I've no more influence than you - less, because I'm a foreigner," he added, aware that he did not want to tread on any official toes when he was so far from home. He paused to think. "I shall have to get in touch with my boss," he decided, "and let him know what's happened."

He looked at his watch. It was getting on for a quarter to four and the crowds were starting to drift away from the racecourse. Back in London, it would be the early hours of the morning. Ginger hesitated. He did not want to wake Biggles with so little to report but if von Stalhein were up to something, and given his past performance, Ginger thought, he almost certainly would be, Biggles needed to know. He decided to wait until later that evening when Biggles was likely to be up and told Vera to go and collect her winnings.

She came back with a fistful of Australian pound notes. "You ought to share in this," she offered, feeling guilty at her good fortune, but he shook his head. "It was your money you risked. I'm pleased for you. It can't be easy being left a widow to bring up a young son alone."

"That's why I work," she replied shortly and Ginger was aware that he had unconsciously made a gaffe. He quickly changed the subject and suggested they try to spot the German as he left the course, if he had not already gone.

Finding one person among so many would not be an easy task, as Ginger well knew. Moreover there did not seem to be a vantage point which would allow him unrestricted view of the exits. He had almost given up hope when he had a stroke of luck. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the dark-haired man who had been talking to von Stalhein making his way across to one of the cars parked on the field. On a hunch, Ginger decided to follow the man in the hope that he might lead him to the German.

With Vera in tow, Ginger pushed his way through the milling crowds who now had only one aim; to leave the racetrack as quickly as possible. He thought for a moment he had lost his quarry, but then he spotted him again getting into a large black car. Peering against the glare of the sun, Ginger thought he saw a passenger in the front seat. As he got nearer, he saw that he was right and recognised von Stalhein.

"Can we follow them in your car?" asked Ginger urgently as it became clear the German and his driver were about to leave.

Breathlessly, for the pace of events was faster than she was used to, Vera agreed and they hurried across to where her car was parked. Ginger was in a fever of impatience, thinking that von Stalhein would lose them, but he had reckoned without the volume of traffic that had to clear the racecourse. In the event, they joined the queue only three cars behind the man they were following and Ginger breathed a sigh of relief. Not only had they got the car in sight, but they were unlikely to be spotted as a tail with the intervening vehicles acting as a shield.

They turned out of the racecourse onto Epsom Road. Ginger was intrigued by the naming of the streets after English racecourses, for after Epsom ran into Racecourse Road, they then proceeded to make their way through Ascot Vale and he saw a sign for Newmarket. He thought he recognised the districts they were passing through from his journey from Tullamarine when he arrived and wondered if von Stalhein were about to catch a plane, but after they had been travelling for about ten minutes, Ginger realised that they were no longer headed for the commercial airport.

"Try to keep at least one car between us," advised Ginger as the thinning traffic threatened to expose them.

"What if I lose him?" asked Vera.

"If he spots us," commented Ginger grimly, "he'll make sure we lose him."

Vera dropped back and let another car overtake them.

"Do you know where this leads?" Ginger asked as they turned into Matthews Avenue.

"Yes, to the small airfield at Essendon," she told him.

"Then it looks as though we've lost them," sighed Ginger. "We can't follow them if they get in a plane and I can't think of any other reason they would be going there."

They drove on in silence, still keeping a respectable distance from von Stalhein's car as it swung into the airfield.

"Pull up by the flight office," instructed Ginger, pointing to a low building, "and we'll watch what they do."

Vera parked where he had indicated and they watched as von Stalhein's car drove up to an Auster parked on the hard-standing. When the driver got out and walked over to the aircraft with the obvious intention of doing the pre-flight checks, he made a gesture, fiddling with his hair, that suddenly reminded Ginger where he had seen him before.

"Of course," he breathed, "it's Canton!"

"What?" asked Vera for he had spoken half to himself.

"I've just remembered where I've seen the man with the moustache before," Ginger told her. "It's Dick Canton, who was involved in the Barula Creek gold robbery1. Well, that settles it," he said firmly. "Once a thief, always a thief. Now I'm convinced von Stalhein is up to no good."

They watched in silence as Canton did the pre-flight checks while von Stalhein made himself comfortable in the plane. Ginger thought he would explode with frustration at the thought of letting them get away with no idea where they were going.

Canton spoke to von Stalhein and then started to make his way across to the flight office. Vera was taken by surprise as Ginger ducked down below the level of the windscreen.

"He might recognise me," he told her urgently. "Tell me what he's doing."

"He's just gone into the office," she commented. "I can see him through the window talking to whoever is in there." After a moment or two, she continued, "he's handing something over, it looks like a piece of paper."

"He's filed a flight plan!" exclaimed Ginger incredulously. "What a bit of luck - assuming he's telling the truth, of course," he added cynically.

"He's coming back out," she told him, and then a few moments later added: "you can sit up now, he's got into the aeroplane."

Ginger looked through the windscreen as the Auster's engine burst into life and the light plane started to taxi toward the end of the strip, facing into wind. Receiving permission to take off, it started to roll. Hurriedly Ginger got out of the car and made his way across to the flight office.

The man behind the desk looked up as he came in. Quickly showing him his police ID papers, Ginger briefly explained why he was enquiring and asked if he could see the flight plan.

The man hesitated and Ginger wished he looked older and more like a policeman. "The men were involved in the Barula Creek murders," he added desperately, hoping that the Australian would have heard about it.

The change in attitude was instant. "Why didn't you say, Blue?" he asked, handing over the paperwork. "There was no call to go killing the miners like that."

Ginger noted briefly that it was the second time he had been so addressed that day and thought it odd, but his attention was wholly taken up with the flight plan when he saw the stages of the flight that led to the final destination, a small township in Queensland. He scribbled a few notes on the back of an envelope he found in his pocket and handed the plan back with grateful thanks.

"I don't suppose there's anyone here who has an aircraft available for hire?" asked Ginger idly, more in hope than expectation, and he was not entirely surprised when the answer proved to be in the negative.

At least, he consoled himself, he knew where the pair were headed and he knew who was doing the flying. Since a leopard does not change its spots, Ginger reckoned there would be some skulduggery afoot and it could well be to do with mining precious metals like the last time or maybe gemstones. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ginger vaguely remembered reading something about Queensland and gems, but he could not quite bring it into focus. Then he remembered the scrap of paper he had picked up. He took it out and looked at it. "Have you still got your race card?" he asked Vera.

"Yes, why?" she asked him.

"Is there a horse called Kosminsky running?" he wanted to know.

"Kosminsky?" she echoed, surprised, "that's the name of the jewellers in Bourke Street."

Ginger felt enlightenment dawn. If von Stalhein had been investigating jewellers, he thought, there was a fair chance it was linked with something underhand.

He felt relieved that he had at last got something definite he could tell Biggles when he telephoned him that evening.


	6. Chapter 6

**Ginger In Australia**

**Chapter 6**

**Ginger Flies North**

Biggles wasted no time when Ginger told him everything he knew. "I'll get the Air Commodore to contact the authorities and let them know what's going on," he informed Ginger. "In the meantime, hire a plane and fly to this place, Yowah. Wait for me there. We'll come out as quickly as we can in the Halifax. Book into the local hotel and see what you can find out about the region. How's your ankle?" he asked as an afterthought.

Ginger admitted that he had not given it a thought since he had spotted von Stalhein. He could almost see Biggles' smile as "can't be as bad as all that, then" travelled down the wire. "We'll all come," continued Biggles. "I'd have a mutiny on my hands if I left anyone behind in London," he commented with a smile in his voice. "It hasn't stopped raining since you left!"

Ginger thought he heard a chorus of agreement in the background as Biggles signed off and the line went dead.

Ginger was relieved to get back to his normal line of work and leave the university precincts far behind. He made his farewells to Georgia with a barely disguised sense of release, although he appreciated her hospitality.

His parting with Vera was of a different nature. He had found her good company at dinner and at the races. In addition, the chase after von Stalhein had forged a sort of comradeship. It evoked a sense of separation that he had not known since he had left his native friends behind when he had returned from Rutoroa.1

"I've really enjoyed my time with you," he told her innocently as he prepared to drive his hired car to the airport to pick up the Auster that he had arranged to rent.

"Me too," returned Vera evenly. "But nothing lasts for ever. You have your job to do and a life thousands of miles away. I have my job and my family here."

Ginger hesitated, unsure what would be acceptable behaviour in the circumstances, and in the end did nothing. He murmured his goodbyes and left. As he drove away, he refrained from looking in the mirror, painfully reminded of another time and another parting that, while the emotion was different, had been no less final in its way2.

The Auster was waiting for him when he arrived at Essendon, having been flown in specially thanks to the co-operation of the State's authorities. With a wry smile, remembering Canton, Ginger filed his flight plan and, having done his pre-flight checks, started up and took off. Once aloft he started to feel much happier as he always did when he was in the air. After a long, but uneventful, if rather bumpy, flight, with two scheduled stops for refuelling, he eventually landed at the airstrip at Eulo, to the south-east of his final destination.

To his surprise, the Auster that Canton had flown up was parked outside the hangar. Ginger had a good look round before he got out of his own aircraft and walked across to the flight office, in fact little more than a shed, to make some discreet inquiries.

The occupant of the flight office proved friendly and helpful. Trying to make it sound conversational, Ginger asked about the other Auster. He did not think it would be particularly suspicious to show an interest in the same type of aircraft as he himself was piloting.

The answer he received gave him food for thought. It was not the first time that von Stalhein and Canton had been there. As they had on the occasion of their previous visits, they had hired a car and gone to Yowah. Ginger made similar enquiries and although there were no more cars for hire, managed to find some transport into town.

There was not a great choice of accommodation in Yowah. Following Biggles' advice, Ginger booked a room at the Commercial Hotel, whose name, together with the sign 'Cobb & Co', was blazoned across the façade of the cream and black building that occupied a corner situation on the junction of the two main thoroughfares. His room was simply furnished but adequate for his needs and had access to a covered balcony that ran the length of both sides of the building, overlooking the street. When he signed in, Ginger took the opportunity to have a look at the other guests, thinking that it would be just his luck if von Stalhein happened to be staying in the same hotel, but if he was, he was there under an assumed name for there was no 'E von Stalhein' in the register.

After a bath and a change of clothes, Ginger had a meal in the dining room and took his coffee to the lounge. It was deserted. He wondered how on earth he was going to follow Biggles' further instructions of finding out what he could about the area if there was no one to talk to. He drank his coffee slowly and was just thinking of going to bed, when a middle-aged man walked in and nodded pleasantly to him.

"G'day, Blue" he muttered, sinking into a chair.

His curiosity overwhelming him, Ginger asked the man why he had been addressed as 'Blue'. "You're the third person since I arrived in Australia to call me that," he added.

Enlightenment was not immediately forthcoming. "It's your hair," said the newcomer.

"Yes, what about it?" asked Ginger, unable to connect the appellation with the colour of his hair.

"It's red."

"Yes, I know," muttered Ginger exasperated. "So what?"

"All redheads are 'Blue'."

The penny dropped. "I see," returned Ginger slowly. "I didn't know."

"You fossicking?" asked the man.

Ginger looked perplexed, thinking he needed to learn another language.

"Fossicking?" he queried.

"Prospecting for opals," the man informed him briefly. "There are quite a few deposits round here, though a lot of it's just potch."

"Potch?" echoed Ginger, beginning to feel he was sounding like a parrot.

"The useless white stuff." The man looked at him askance. "You don't seem to know much," he observed.

"I'm new," explained Ginger. "I only arrived here today. I'm waiting for some friends. I hadn't intended to go ... fossicking?" he ventured.

The man looked at him as though he was clearly mad. "If you're not here for the opals," he told him, "I can't think what else there is to attract you to this neck of the woods." He drew out a pipe and proceeded to fill it with an evil-looking shag. "Unless you're looking for snakes."

"Snakes!" Ginger nearly jumped out of his chair. "Why would I be looking for snakes?" he asked, the pitch of his voice climbing. "I can't stand the things."

"They use the skins," his informant told him laconically, emitting a reek of foul-smelling blue smoke that made Ginger's eyes water and set him coughing, "for shoes and handbags."

Ginger looked at him aghast. The information that the place had snakes and people hunted them for their skins made a shiver run down his spine. Fervently he wished Biggles were there. He thought he had never missed him so much in his life.

"One piece of advice," the Australian told him, "seeing as you're so wet behind the ears; don't leave your car, and make sure you have matches and water with you at all times."

"Thank you," murmured Ginger, still in a daze about the snakes. "I'll remember that."

"You do that," said the Australian as he got up to leave. "The last bloke who forgot it is buried in the bush."

Ginger felt his mouth go dry. 'What had he got himself into?' he wondered.


	7. Chapter 7

**Ginger In Australia**

**Chapter 7**

**Ginger Investigates**

The following morning, Ginger thought he had better try to get some idea of the layout of the place, so he went for an early morning stroll. He was relieved to find that his ankle was almost back to normal and caused him no inconvenience as he walked around the small town. He found a garage and organised the hire of a car so he could explore the surrounding district.

"Going fossicking?" asked the proprietor as Ginger made the arrangements.

"Possibly," answered Ginger, unwilling to have another inhabitant wondering why on earth he was there if not for the opals.

"The roads are mainly gravel," the mechanic told him, "and vary from good to very rough and bumpy. She's not a jeep, but she should see you right. Watch out for the wild life," he advised, "if you're travelling early morning or late afternoon."

Ginger nodded. "I know; snakes," he said warily.

"You see a few pythons," observed the garage hand, "but the roos are the worst. If you hit a roo, you'll know about it. It'll stop a truck."

Ginger's heart sank. 'What a country,' he thought. "I'll be careful," he promised. Before he set off he made sure he had some food, water and matches, mindful of the advice he had received the previous evening.

The earth was yellow and dusty. He had been told jocularly rain was a four letter word used about twice a year, but from the arid nature of the soil, he thought there was probably a lot of truth behind the facetious statement. Ginger headed north, following a hunch. As that was the direction the mines were in, according to what he had learned, he felt that it was reasonable to suppose that it was also the place von Stalhein and Canton would be headed. He drove carefully for in places the road surface was very bad and he did not want to wreck the suspension or break an axle. Now and again the vehicle startled crows or wedge-tailed eagles feeding on something unrecognisable on the road. The birds flapped away, heavily laden. Ginger, feeling sick, did not enquire too closely into their feeding habits.

The sun climbed in the sky. Although it was spring, there was real heat in its rays and Ginger thought that summer would not be a very comfortable time to visit the region. He took frequent sips of water and remembered the advice he had been given in the hotel. Ginger continued north, seeing the heights of Mount Herbert in the distance to his right. Eventually he spotted some heaps of spoil away off to the left of the road he was following and guessed he had arrived at his destination.

Ginger thought he could do worse than adopt the role that Canton had used before the Barula Creek robbery, so when he pulled up he introduced himself not as a policeman but as a reporter, sent from a London paper to do a story on opals.

The man to whom he made this announcement looked at him in amazement. "You and your pal ought to have got together," he commented. "It'd have saved both of you a lot of time and wasted journey."

"Pal?" queried Ginger. "What do you mean?" he enquired, although he had a strange sense of foreboding that was confirmed by the man's next words.

"We've just had somebody out from London wanting to know all about the mines." He looked at Ginger curiously. "Don't you newspaper people ever talk to each other?"

"Was he short, dark-haired and with a moustache?" asked Ginger "Had his hair parted in the middle and kept fiddling with it?"

"That's him," confirmed the mine superintendent.

"Was he alone?" Ginger wanted to know.

"No, he had someone with him. Didn't say much. A bit stuck up if you ask me," observed the Australian.

"Tall, thin, with a monocle and cigarette holder? Walked with a limp?" queried Ginger.

"Spot on," agreed the superintendent. "You know 'em?"

Ginger took a deep breath and nodded. "Is there somewhere we can talk?" he asked. "There's something I think you should know."

In the shade of a tent, he revealed his true purpose for making enquiries, showing his Scotland Yard police authority.

"I know it doesn't cut any ice here," he observed, "but in the light of what happened at Barula Creek, I thought you ought to know." The superintendent, whose name was Jackson, looked shaken.

"Too right," he agreed. "I'd better tell the men to be on the look-out. Thanks for the warning." He looked pensive. "I wonder if they've been behind the unrest we've been having," he mused.

"Unrest?" prompted Ginger.

"Nothing serious, just a few of the natives being unsettled and showing anti-British feeling."

"It's possible," agreed Ginger. "Von Stalhein is so eaten up with hatred for the British it colours everything he does. Biggles - my boss - thinks it's such a pity he never got over losing the war."

He stood up. "I'd better be getting back. I've a long drive ahead of me on unfamiliar roads. It's already getting on for late afternoon. I don't want to crack up in the dark."

Jackson saw him off and Ginger started back on the return journey. He was concerned that he might be caught out in the dark, so made the best speed he could, given the nature of the road surface. He had been travelling for about half an hour when something large and grey bounded out of the bush directly in front of him. Instinctively, he slammed on his brakes and turned the wheel to avoid hitting the animal. The tyres spun on the dusty surface and Ginger felt the vehicle begin to slide. Almost in slow motion he saw the bush at the side of the road come to meet him and drew up his knees to escape being trapped. The offside wheels sank into a ditch or soft sand, he was not sure which, and the car rolled over. Ginger hit his head on the roof and went out like a light.


	8. Chapter 8

**Ginger In Australia**

**Chapter 8**

**Disturbing News**

When Biggles eventually arrived at Yowah, having left the Halifax at Eulo and made similar arrangements for transport into town as Ginger, he booked into the Commercial Hotel and expected to see his protégé.

"Ginger's here," he told the others. "I saw his signature in the book when I signed in myself. There's no mistaking that scrawl."

"Well, he's not here now, old boy," observed Bertie. "How about tearing a steak or two? All this waffling round the atmosphere is making me hungry. My stomach is still on English time."

Biggles looked at his watch. "Yes, I suppose we could have something, if the restaurant is open." He looked pensive. "I suppose Ginger will turn up when it's time for supper. He likes his food."

They all went into the dining room where a satisfying meal was arranged for them. Biggles asked the waitress if she had seen a young, red-haired man in the hotel. Her answer concerned him. Ginger had been there but had gone out the previous morning and had not come back the night before. The proprietor was wondering whether to tell the police, but he had left everything in his room and had paid in advance. He just had not told anyone he was intending to be away. Biggles thanked her and turned serious eyes on his companions as she went back to the kitchen.

"I don't like the sound of that," he averred. "I'm sure if Ginger had been able to get back, he would have. I wonder where he went."

"He'd need some transport," declared Algy. "The Auster is still on the airstrip, so he didn't take that."

"I don't suppose he will be riding a horse," remarked Bertie facetiously, "even though he's been pretty keen ever since Cub showed him how."

Biggles frowned. "It's more likely he will have tried to hire a car," he reasoned. "Algy, after dinner, make some enquiries as to who hires vehicles and see if you can find out if Ginger rented one. If he did, see if he gave any indication of where he intended going. We could do with some surface transport as well," he added. "I don't like the thought of having to walk everywhere or being stuck without a car."

Algy acquiesced and as soon as he had drunk his coffee made for the exit. He had barely reached the street when he abruptly turned round and came back to his astonished companions.

"Hold onto your hat," he told Biggles tersely. "Von Stalhein is walking down the main street and coming this way. I don't think he saw me," he added. "I nipped back into the hotel pretty sharpish."

"At least Ginger was right in his information," observed Biggles. "I wonder if Erich has had anything to do with his disappearance," he speculated.

"You'll soon be able to find out," Algy told him. "He's coming into the hotel."

The surprise on the German's face when his eyes fell on the three airmen, quickly masked as it was, told Biggles all he needed to know. Whatever had befallen Ginger, von Stalhein knew nothing about it. If he had seen Ginger, Biggles reasoned, the German would know the rest of them were not far behind.

Von Stalhein's next words confirmed his suspicion. "Bigglesworth, Lacey and Lord Lissie," he greeted them. "This is an unexpected pleasure." He looked round, "and where is your young friend, … Hebblethwaite?" he enquired. "No party is complete without him."

"I rather thought you might be able to tell us," remarked Biggles softly, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke ceilingward.

Von Stalhein looked at him curiously. "Dear me," he commented sarcastically, "that is very remiss of you to let him go wondering about on his own and get lost. Anything might have happened to him. Australia has seven of the world's ten most venomous snakes, you know," he added with malicious amusement.

"Not all the snakes are in the outback," remarked Biggles pointedly looking von Stalhein in the eye.

The German's lips compressed. "What are you doing here?" he asked icily. "Why are you following me?"

"I don't expect you to believe this," returned Biggles wearily, "but until you walked through that door I didn't actually know you were here. I hardly think that qualifies as 'following you'," he murmured caustically, having no intention of letting von Stalhein see all the cards in his hand.

The German paused as if unsure whether to believe him and continued, "then why are you here?"

"If you must know," replied Biggles, "I'm looking for young Hebblethwaite. He left me a message saying he was coming here and he would be at the hotel. When I got here, he'd been and gone. I was just considering what I was going to do about finding him when you walked in. What are you doing here?" he wanted to know. "This is not your usual stamping ground."

"I am here in a private capacity. I have come to look at certain business interests with a view to making a major investment," lied von Stalhein fluently.

"And were they satisfactory?" enquired Biggles.

"Perfectly," answered the German. "The prospects are outstanding and the return will be excellent."

"I'm pleased to hear it," murmured Biggles. "Don't let me detain you. I'm sure you have pressing business to attend to, just as I have."

Von Stalhein nodded curtly and left them to enter the dining room. When he had gone, Algy let out a sigh of relief. "I don't know what it is about him," he commented colloquially, "but I get a nasty taste in my mouth every time I'm anywhere near him. It's a pity he wasn't plugged at El Asile."

"Absolutely, old boy," agreed Bertie. "The man's an absolute rotter."

"Never mind that now," Biggles told them. "Von Stalhein can wait. It's Ginger I'm concerned about. Wherever can he have got to?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Ginger In Australia**

**Chapter 9**

**What happened to Ginger**

Gradually the mist cleared before Ginger's eyes and he surveyed his surroundings. His watch had stopped and he had no idea how long he had been unconscious. He became aware his head was throbbing and his face felt sticky. When he put up his hand and touched his forehead, he was horrified to find his fingers came away wet with blood.

He tried to think. He was lying in a wrecked car but what he was doing there and where he had being going he could not for the life of him remember. Awkwardly he crawled out of the wreckage and stood shakily beside the upturned chassis. Without warning he felt dizzy and had to sit down, his head between his knees. A wave of nausea swept over him and he was suddenly gripped by fear, realising that the bang on the head had been a serious one and he must be concussed. Did anyone know where he was, he wondered. Had he left a message? The last thing he remembered was flying up in an Auster and landing at some out of the way little airstrip.

Trying hard to marshal his thoughts, Ginger looked at the arid landscape. The sun was glaringly hot and he was thirsty. He knew he must have water. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he started to stagger toward the line of trees he could see in the distance, but somewhere in the back of his befuddled mind came Biggles' voice. "All ranks are to take a water bottle with them when leaving their machine." He had disobeyed that order once and only just lived to regret it1.

Ginger reeled back to the car and rummaged among the debris despite the alarming tendency of the landscape to sway. He gave a grunt of satisfaction when he found a canteen of water among the rubbish on the side of the car resting on the floor. He shook it, wincing as the action sent a shaft of pain through his head, and judged the bottle was half full. With shaking hands he managed to free the cap and took a drink, being careful to replace the stopper firmly. Despite the heat he felt cold and shivered.

Sleep, he wanted to sleep. The enticing thought almost caused him to lie down and give in, but he dragged himself to his feet although everything rocked sickeningly. He knew his thought processes were severely impaired. He ought to know what to do, but he could not get a grip on the information. His head seemed to be stuffed with cotton wool. Someone had told him something about being out in the outback. Who? Was it recently? What had they said? If only his head would stop aching he might remember.

What would Biggles do? The question ran like a refrain through his throbbing head. Get help, decided Ginger. Yes, that is what Biggles would do, he would get help. But where?

He looked about him again. He was surrounded by scrubby growth. The trees in the distance looked blurred in the haze. Or was it his eyesight? He was no longer sure.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and stared at the blood on it as though seeing it for the first time. Bandage, he thought vaguely and tried to rip a piece off his shirt to staunch the wound. He was getting weak and the material would not tear. Nearly sobbing with frustration, Ginger groped in his pocket hoping to find a handkerchief but his fingers closed on something just as useful, his pocket knife. With failing strength he slit the seam and managed to split the material into strips. Crudely he wound the makeshift bandage around his head and felt better that at least it should help stop the bleeding that was sapping his strength.

He took another drink and nearly dropped the canteen. Soberly he re-corked it and told himself he must be more careful. His life would depend on taking regular drinks.

Although he was still confused, Ginger began to feel a little better. He felt sure the bleeding had stopped and his head did not ache quite so badly now. He tried to apply some logic to the situation he found himself in. He was in the outback. Clearly he must have been going somewhere for some purpose, else why would he be there? He looked in the car and found a map. It meant nothing to him. He was in the middle of nowhere with no idea of which direction he had been travelling.

But there must have been a road, he reasoned. It was unlikely he would have been travelling across country. The vehicle was not a four wheel drive. His view was obscured by the scrubby bush. If there was a road it could not be far away, he reckoned, but in which direction? Had he come off the road on the left or the right side?

He racked his brain but everything was a blank. He knew that memory loss was not uncommon with concussion.

He was suddenly convulsively sick and shivered again. He ought to try to do something, he decided. He could not just sit and wait for someone to come and find him. They might take days. Or they might never come at all. Staggering unsteadily he made his way towards the trees in the distance. At least they would provide him with some shade, he concluded as he ploughed on.

Had he but known it, he had chosen a path that took him further from the road, but by that time he was incapable of coherent thought. His one aim was to reach the stand of trees. Beyond that he could not consider. In some strange way, Ginger thought, the trees seemed to be receding rather than getting closer. By now reeling drunkenly, he stopped by a large bush. There was shade there and he sank down gratefully. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a movement. His mouth went dry when a snake slithered out, disturbed by his presence. He tried to get away but his limbs seemed no longer to obey him and the sky seemed to be turning a peculiar shade of purple.

"I wish Biggles were here," was his last thought as darkness engulfed him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Ginger In Australia**

**Chapter 10**

**Persistence Pays Off**

Algy was not long doing the rounds of the garages. There were only two. He hired an ancient Land Rover for their own use and talked to the mechanic who had rented Ginger his car.

"He hired the car for four days," Algy reported as soon as he got back. "The chap said Ginger had been asking about the opal mines to the north of here and borrowed a map of the region. He was last seen heading north making for Duck Creek."

"Then we'd better get cracking," urged Biggles. "Bertie, you stay here in case Ginger comes back. If he does, tell him to wait. We don't want to be chasing our own tails. Algy, you and I will head north and see what we can find out. With any luck we'll pass him on his return journey."

Bertie settled down to wait as Algy and Biggles climbed into the Land Rover. "You drive, I'll navigate," instructed Biggles as they set off, following the same trail as Ginger had traversed the day before.

Algy drove as fast as he dared given the state of the roads. Although Biggles kept watch there was no sign of Ginger or the car he had hired. "Pull in here," ordered Biggles as he saw the spoil heaps that had attracted Ginger's attention. "We'll ask this chap if anyone's seen him come this way."

By chance, the man he hailed turned out to be a miner who had spoken to Ginger just before he left. What he told Biggles did nothing to lessen his anxiety for the young man.

"Let's head back," he told Algy when he had thanked the man for his help. "Ginger set off back to the hotel. He never made it. That means something must have happened to him between here and Yowah."

"There was no sign of him on the road," remarked Algy. "I looked."

"So did I," admitted Biggles. "Perhaps he's had an accident and has gone off the road. We'll keep our eyes peeled on the way back and if we don't find him, one of us will take the Auster and do a search from the air. At least we know now roughly where he is."

Algy nodded but said nothing, putting the Land Rover in gear and pulling away. They reached Yowah without spotting any evidence that Ginger had ever passed that way and gloomily reported what they had found to Bertie.

"Well, he's not come back here, old boy," affirmed Bertie. "I'm getting seriously worried about young Ginger."

Biggles was silent, but Algy knew him well enough to know that he shared Bertie's concern.

"Let's grab a quick bite to eat and start the air search," suggested Biggles. "If Ginger is lost or hurt, any delay could make the situation worse."

After a hasty meal, Biggles took to the air in the Auster and Algy, after having dropped him off at the airfield, made his way back toward the mine. They had decided to take the radio out of the Halifax and put it in the Land Rover so that they could keep in touch. Hurriedly improvising a suitable antenna, Algy repeatedly muttered that he missed Ginger when it came to radio work. Biggles irritably told him to stop complaining and hurry up.

When Biggles took off in the Auster, he headed straight for the road that they had travelled to the mine. As he swept northwards he passed over Algy's Land Rover raising a cloud of dust from the unmetalled surface.

Biggles divided up the area he was to search into squares, flying a regular pattern, each square slightly overlapping the other, looking for any sign of Ginger or the car he had been driving.

He had almost given up hope, as he could see the mine workings in the distance and thought that by road the journey would not be more than twenty minutes or half an hour, when he glimpsed the sun glinting on something. He banked the Auster and brought it round so that he could get a better view.

Whatever had caused the flash of light was half hidden in the scrub. Biggles went lower and changed the angle of his approach. The gleam had been the reflection of light off a windscreen, he realised and called Algy immediately to investigate, pinpointing the position as he circled overhead. He saw Algy's vehicle race up and stop in a cloud of dust. Algy leapt out, looking for the crash that Biggles had spotted. Following Biggles' instructions, Algy plunged into the scrub. Within minutes he was back and the radio crackled in Biggles' earphones.

"It's his car, Biggles," Algy's disembodied voice came over the ether, "but he's not in it." He paused and when he spoke again, despite the distortion caused by the narrowness of the bandwidth, Biggles could plainly hear the anxiety in his voice. "There's a lot of blood and he's been sick."

Biggles looked around. He could not see the car clearly and there were patches of scrub interspersed with open ground. If Ginger was down in the bush, he would not be able to sight him from the air in all probability unless he was out in the open. If he was, after a day unprotected in the heat, Biggles was not hopeful of a good outcome.

"Make a search from ground level," he told Algy. "I'll look from here, but I don't hold out much hope. If he's unconscious, he'll be a small target to spot from here. There is one thing, if he's badly hurt he can't have gone far."

Algy acknowledged and plunged into the bush once more. Biggles lost sight of him for a while and then Algy emerged into view, heading for a clump of scrub between the wreck and the trees.

Biggles saw him quicken his pace and duck under cover. In a flash he was back out again, waving his arms frantically for Biggles to land.

"He's found him!" exclaimed Biggles to himself and cast about for somewhere to put the machine down near Algy, who had gone back to the scrub.

Not without a certain amount of trepidation, Biggles floated the Auster down on a clear patch of ground about a hundred yards from where he had last seen Algy.

The wheels rumbled over the rough terrain and Biggles heaved a hearty sigh of relief as the aircraft ran to a stop safely. He jumped down and made for Algy's last known position.


	11. Chapter 11

**Ginger In Australia**

**Chapter 11**

**What Algy Found**

When Algy had dropped Biggles off at the airfield to begin the search, he headed for the mines with as much speed as was consistent with safety, oblivious of the cloud of dust he flung up in this wake and mindful only that if he cracked up it would do nobody any good, least of all Ginger.

He sped past Yowah and put his foot down as he reached a slightly better surface. In the distance he could see the Auster making a standard search pattern. As the time passed and he closed on the opal mines without any word from Biggles, Algy began to get seriously worried.

Unbidden, memories of Ginger as he had first met him, a dirty and dishevelled but cheerful and resourceful young boy, crowded his mind. Now he might be dead out in an alien landscape. Firmly Algy shut his mind to such thoughts and concentrated on the task in hand.

Suddenly his head phones crackled. "I think I can spot something," Biggles told him. "It looks like the windscreen of a crashed vehicle. Go and have a look see if it's his," and he proceeded to give Algy the location in relation to his present position.

Algy acknowledged briefly and accelerated. When he reached the spot Biggles had described, he braked hard. The heavy vehicle slid before coming to a halt in a cloud of dust and Algy was not surprised that Ginger had gone off the road, if it was indeed his car.

He pushed his way through the scrub with Biggles' instructions clear in his ears. He was almost on the car before he spotted it and thought it was a miracle anybody had found it, hidden as it was by the vegetation. He recognised it as the one Ginger had hired by the description the mechanic had given them.

His heart beating fast he looked inside. It was empty. He could not make up his mind whether he was relieved or sorry not to find Ginger there. The fact that he had got out meant that he was capable of movement, anyway, he consoled himself. There were some ugly stains on the roof and seats so Algy knew that Ginger had not escaped entirely unscathed. There was more blood outside and Algy could see the marks in the sand where Ginger had sat down and a scrap of material torn from a shirt. There was also a patch of vomit, which Algy thought was a bad sign if Ginger had hit his head. Algy looked quickly around, hoping to see Ginger nearby, but the landscape was deserted so he wasted no more time and ran back to the Land Rover to report everything to Biggles.

On receiving Biggles' instructions to do a ground search he started quartering the area in a similar pattern to that adopted by Biggles in the air. He knew that unless he was methodical, it would be easy to miss Ginger, especially if he were incapacitated by his injuries. Subconsciously he was aware of the drone of the Auster as Biggles did the same thing from above. Algy started in the direction of the faint imprints left by Ginger as he staggered off, but the scrub masked the traces more often than not and he could not rely on Ginger walking in a straight line.

Algy emerged from the scrub and saw more footprints. From their erratic nature, he realised that Ginger could not have been in complete control of his faculties and an icy hand seemed to clutch at his heart. His attention was attracted by the harsh croaking of crows and looking up, he saw them massing in the bushes, as if drawn by something on the ground. With a growing sense of unease, he hurried forward. His pace quickened almost to a run as he spotted the bright splash of auburn hair under a large bush.

Ginger lay unmoving, collapsed on his side, a blood-stained rag wound round his forehead, his face grey and his breathing depressed. Horrified, Algy felt for his pulse and was barely relieved by what he felt.

Scrambling to his feet and scattering the thwarted birds as he did so, he left Ginger as he was and raced out to wave frantically to Biggles, gesturing for him to land as quickly as possible.

As soon as he saw Biggles waggle the wings and start to turn to find a suitable place to put the Auster down, Algy ran back to where he had left his unconscious friend.

He dropped to his knees beside the youngster's senseless form and put his jacket around him. Despite the heat Ginger felt deathly cold. Algy tried to examine the lad's injury, but the blood had congealed so he desisted, afraid that he would reopen the wound and restart the bleeding by removing the impromptu dressing.

"Ginger!" he called urgently but there was no response. Algy ran his hands lightly over Ginger's body, feeling for broken bones and was relieved to find nothing.

A canteen of water lay beside Ginger's body, just where he had dropped it when he collapsed, Algy surmised. He picked it up and shook it. There was still water in it, so he soaked his handkerchief and wiped Ginger's face tenderly. He could no longer hear the Auster and assumed Biggles was down. Moments later he heard his cousin's voice calling him.

"Over here, Biggles," he shouted in response. "Quick!"

Guided by the sound of Algy's voice, Biggles appeared beside the bush. His face drained of colour when he saw Ginger.

"How is he?" he asked, consternation showing in the urgency of the question.

"Pretty bad from what I can see," replied Algy unhappily. "I can't get any response from him, his pulse is weak and fluttery and he's as cold as ice. Shock, loss of blood, dehydration, heat exhaustion and heaven knows what damage he's done to his head. He needs to be in hospital."

"Help me get him to the Auster," ordered Biggles crisply. "I'll fly him there."

Algy picked Ginger up and hefted him in his arms. The lad was not heavy but his dead weight was awkward to carry. Between them they manhandled Ginger's limp body into the Auster and Biggles prepared to take off.

"I'm going to take him to Thargomindah," Biggles told Algy. "It's the nearest place of any size and I'm pretty sure there's a hospital there. I'll confirm it when I'm airborne," he added. "Go back to the hotel and tell Bertie what's going on. I'll let you know as soon as I have any news."

Algy nodded, a lump in his throat. He watched as Biggles opened up to full throttle against the brakes before allowing the light plane to bump its way over the uneven ground and lift into the air. As soon as he knew the take-off was successful, Algy returned to the Land Rover and made his way back to give Bertie the disturbing news.

On the way, his radio tuned to the aircraft frequencies, he heard Biggles' request and the subsequent confirmation. As soon as he had told Bertie what had happened he decided to take the Halifax and fly along to join Biggles.

"Didn't Biggles tell you to stay here, old boy?" queried Bertie when Algy informed him of his plans.

"Not in so many words," replied Algy grimly. "I'm not going to hang about here kicking my heels while Ginger's miles away in some hospital, possibly dying." The words caused a catch in his voice and Bertie regarded him sympathetically.

"Ginger and I go back a long way," Algy told him. "He was only a child when I met him. Ginger was like the kid brother I never had, being the youngest son of the family myself. I can't bear the thought of him dying alone."

"Biggles is with him," pointed out Bertie practically.

"Biggles will have to go after von Stalhein, now that he knows he's in the area," returned Algy. "You don't have to come," Algy reminded him, "you can always stay here."

"No fear," replied Bertie with alacrity. "If you're going, I'm coming with you. I'm fond of Ginger, too, you know," he added plaintively.


	12. Chapter 12

**Ginger In Australia**

**Chapter 12**

**Covering Old Ground**

Biggles wasted no time making his way to Thargomindah and calling for an ambulance to be waiting for him at the airfield. He declared an emergency and went straight in, taxiing up to the waiting blood wagon.

Biggles watched helplessly as Ginger was put on a stretcher and drips inserted into his veins. The medics lost no time in loading their patient up into the ambulance and driving away, sirens wailing. Before he left, the doctor gave Biggles brief instructions to get to the hospital but would not let him accompany Ginger.

Still dazed by what had happened, Biggles was just contemplating finding a taxi when the roar of a four-engined aircraft caught his attention. He looked up and recognised the Halifax. Judging by the speed with which he had arrived, thought Biggles, Algy must have run the engines on full boost most of the way.

He waited by the Auster, knowing Algy would look for him there first and was not surprised when his expectation was realised. Bertie was tagging along behind.

Algy had barely come within hailing distance before he was inquiring about Ginger. Biggles told him what he knew, which was very little. "He has a chance," he admitted finally. "That's all they would say."

They took a taxi to the hospital and eventually found which ward Ginger was in. He was not allowed visitors, the nurse told them.

"I'll stay here and wait," Algy volunteered. "You take Bertie and go after von Stalhein. We shouldn't forget the real reason we're all here."

"No, you're right," agreed Biggles. "Keep me posted," he said quietly and their eyes met.

Algy nodded. "I will," he promised. "Either way."

Biggles exchanged a long glance with his cousin before he turned on his heel with a curt, "come on, Bertie, let's get cracking. We're burning daylight."

"Be right with you, old boy," murmured Bertie, following him. As he went out of the door he paused for a moment and glanced back down the corridor. Algy was sitting on a bench, his head in his hands. Bertie hurried after Biggles who was already at the bottom of the steps hailing a taxi.

The journey back to the airfield passed in silence. Biggles smoked cigarette after cigarette, scarcely waiting until he had finished one before lighting up another.

"What's the plan, old boy?" enquired Bertie eventually.

"Go back to Duck Creek and see what we can find out," Biggles told him. "We're back to square one. Whatever Ginger discovered there, if anything, he can't tell us so we shall have to do some investigating ourselves."

Bertie nodded and left Biggles alone with his thoughts. On the airfield he told Bertie he would take the Auster and leave the Halifax for Algy. There were two reasons; firstly it was a rental machine and Ginger had hired it to go to Yowah, not Thargomindah, and secondly it would be easier to put it down in the bush, if the need arose, than the heavier Halifax, although that was a faster machine.

Back at Yowah, Biggles informed the hotel of what had happened to Ginger and took charge of his effects. Bertie thought there was an unpleasant air of finality about the matter-of-fact way Biggles stowed Ginger's kit with his own luggage, but he refrained from remarking on it.

Biggles was soon on the road to Duck Creek for a word with the manager of the mine. When Jackson, the superintendent, told him what he had learned from Ginger, Biggles asked sharply, "when is the next consignment due out? It looks as though they're going to pull the same stunt as they did at Barula Creek."

"Tomorrow morning," replied Jackson. "We'll be leaving early to miss the worst of the heat."

"Then the chances are, that's when it will happen," suggested Biggles. "Show me the route. I know how von Stalhein operates. I may be able to spot a likely ambush site."

The superintendent spread a map on the table and showed Biggles the itinerary of the opal shipment.

"What's this area like?" queried Biggles, pointing at the map.

"Pretty flat and open to the north," answered Jackson, "but the road runs close to the foothills of Mount Prara."

"Then it's my guess that's where they'll try it," averred Biggles. "There'll be somewhere they can put the Auster down yet opportunity to stage an ambush from the hills. It's ideal for their dirty work."

"I'll make sure my men are armed and ready," stated Jackson grimly.

"How many men can you muster?" Biggles wanted to know.

"At least eight," Jackson told him.

Biggles looked pensive. "The odds would appear to be stacked against them then, with just the two of them," he mused. "Von Stalhein will have something up his sleeve, though, if I know anything," he continued. "I'll be watching you from the air. If they use the Auster, as I think they will, you won't be able to do anything if they try to get away by taking off."

Jackson nodded and Biggles noted the relevant details of the shipment convoy.

They went their separate ways until the following day.

At the appointed time the following morning Biggles and Bertie were in the air over Duck Creek. They could plainly see the trucks with the opal setting off on their long journey north. Biggles throttled back to maximise his fuel economy. He had no need to rush, anyway. The object was to keep the convoy in sight, not pull away from it.

The journey was uneventful, but as they approached the area Biggles thought the ambush might come, he increased his vigilance.

"Watch the sky, Bertie," he told his companion. "Tell me if you see their Auster."

Bertie swept the surrounding area with his binoculars. "Nothing yet, old boy," he reported. The Auster droned on, eating up the miles. Bertie stopped his sweep and focussed the glasses on a speck to the north-east. He touched Biggles on the arm and pointed. "That looks like them, old boy," he commented.

Biggles followed the direction of his outstretched arm and turned the Auster to bring it between the other aircraft and the sun.

They watched as Canton, or at least Biggles presumed it was he, landed the small plane on the level stretch to the north of the mountain. Biggles throttled back, letting the aircraft glide, knowing that the sound of his engine would carry in the still morning air. Three people got out, one of whom looked like an aborigine.

"I think they've brought a tracker with them," opined Bertie.

"I wonder what they want him for," mused Biggles as the objects of their surveillance made their way up into the foothills ahead of the opal convoy which was now just passing the creek before entering the defile.

As the convoy of trucks entered the gully, Biggles saw them pull up and noticed a tree trunk placed across the track. For a moment nothing happened, the men remained in the trucks tense and expectant. Then a hail of spears, interspersed with some rifle fire, came from behind the rocks, as a body of dark-skinned natives launched an attack on the trucks. The men in the convoy, forewarned, opened fire and drove them off, but not without loss to themselves despite the inequality of the fight. The end of such a one-sided affair, however, was inevitable once the advantage of surprise had been lost. Those natives who remained unscathed turned tail and ran, leaving a couple of their injured colleagues lying on the ground. Seeing there was no longer any opposition, one of the men got out and dragged the tree away. The trucks continued on their way with their semi-precious cargo.

"So now we know," murmured Biggles. "He must have been their chief or perhaps an interpreter. There goes von Stalhein," he added as the German limped into view, "making for the Auster with Canton."

As they watched, one of the natives came running up, unarmed, with the probable intention of getting away with the Europeans. Von Stalhein saw him coming and calmly shot him with scarcely a pause in his progress.

"I say!" exclaimed Bertie. "That was as cool as you like!"

"Von Stalhein doesn't take chances, Bertie, you should know that," Biggles reminded him. "If I were in Canton's shoes, I wouldn't sleep easy, either," he commented. "When Erich has no more use for him, he's just as likely to put a bullet in him as he did the native."

Still losing height, Biggles swung the Auster round as the other aircraft took off. Now at last able to open up, he banked to follow the sister machine as it headed east, taking care to keep in its blind spot.

"It looks as though they're packing up, old boy," remarked Bertie as it became clear that the machine was heading for Brisbane.

Biggles was puzzled. "That's not like von Stalhein," he commented. "Whatever else he may be, he's not a quitter."

Bertie did not reply and they watched in silence as the other Auster swept in over the Brisbane River and landed at the small airport at Archerfield.

Biggles shied away until the other aircraft had landed and the occupants had gone into the building then he deftly put his aeroplane down and taxied to a dispersal point as far away from the other machine as he could get.

Biggles took the opportunity to have the Auster refuelled. Both wing tanks full and the ferry tank at its maximum 10 gallons under those conditions meant he had 40 gallons on board. He had no way of knowing if the other machine also had a ferry tank, but if it did, he thought, their endurance was identical, only flying skill might eke out a little more performance and range from one machine more than the other.

While Bertie was supervising the refuelling, Biggles slipped along to the flight office. Showing his Scotland Yard identity he asked about Canton's machine and was told it was being refuelled with a view to flying again later that day.

"Do you want them arrested?" queried the duty officer.

"No, I want to find out what they're up to," Biggles told him. "Give them enough rope and they'll hang themselves eventually," he commented, asking to be informed when the aircraft's destination was known.

In a more sombre mood, he also requested to use the telephone and put through a call to Thargomindah. When he returned to Bertie he answered his unspoken question with a short "no change".

"At least he's not any worse, old boy," Bertie tried to look on the bright side. "Did you get a word with Algy?"

"No. I spoke to the ward sister. Ginger's still not permitted visitors. Algy will see him the minute he's allowed. I asked the sister to pass onto him where we are so he can contact us as soon as he does. In the meantime we need to find out what von Stalhein is up to. Wait a minute," murmured Biggles, "this looks like someone coming over from the flight office now. Perhaps they're going to tell us."

"I'm looking for an Inspector Bigglesworth," said the messenger, a freckle-faced youth with sandy hair.

"That's me," acknowledged Biggles and took the flimsy from the lad. He opened it expecting to read details of Canton's flight plan. Instead it was a message from Algy. Biggles read it and thrust it deep into his pocket. "Thanks," he muttered curtly. "No reply."

The youth went off whistling cheerfully.

Bertie looked at him enquiringly but Biggles told him nothing. "What was in the note, old boy?" he asked eventually.

"Nothing new," replied Biggles shortly. "Nothing we didn't already know."


	13. Chapter 13

**Ginger In Australia**

**Chapter 13**

**Dirty Tricks**

The details of Canton's flight plan were eventually brought over by the same messenger.

"Where is Mount Taylor?" Biggles asked him, unfamiliar with the name.

"Just south of here," was the reply. "It's not very pretty. It's a mining area."

Biggles pricked up his ears. "What sort of mining?" he wanted to know.

"Gold," the lad told him. "There's a lot of small mines round here, out at Ipswich and to the north at Gympie, but the really big deposits are near Cairns."

Biggles thanked him and got ready to depart. They had taken the opportunity to snatch a quick meal and Biggles had laid in some stores in case of emergency. All they needed now was for Canton and von Stalhein to take off so they could see what they were up to.

"It looks as though von Stalhein has a contingency plan," remarked Bertie as they waited for their adversaries to get going.

"I told you not to underestimate him, Bertie," reminded Biggles. "He is nothing if not thorough." There was a stir of activity at the hangar as the German's Auster was pulled out ready for flight. "Here we go at last," murmured Biggles.

"Any more for the skylark?" remarked Bertie brightly as the other machine commenced its take-off roll.

Biggles let them get airborne and steady on their course. With the advantage of knowing their destination, he felt he could take his time. When he thought there was no risk of the other pilot seeing him he took off and headed south. He could not see the other machine but that did not worry him. Conditions were slightly hazy, which would account for failing to make visual contact. When, however, he reached Mount Taylor and flew over the small airfield without seeing the other Auster he began to have misgivings. After he had landed and been told that no other aircraft had flown in that day, he knew he had been sold a pup.

"Well blow me down!" exclaimed Bertie. "We've been suckered!"

"I should be kicked from here to the Gulf of Carpentaria," muttered Biggles viciously. "I kept telling you not to underestimate him and I've done the same thing myself. He must have switched messages somehow or arranged for that lad to bring one of his own."

"He could be anywhere," complained Bertie.

"Perhaps he's not so clever as all that," suggested Biggles. "After all, he's sent us on a wild goose chase to one gold field. Perhaps he's still interested in the gold, but one of the others the lad mentioned. What was the name of the one to the north of here?"

"Gympie," replied Bertie.

"Let's try there, then," suggested Biggles. "We can't be any worse off than we are now."

The Auster covered the hundred or so miles to Gympie in a little over an hour, thanks to a tail wind. Biggles smiled grimly when he saw the other Auster parked at the edge of the strip. "Von Stalhein is going to be sick," he remarked. "He always did think I turned up like a bad penny."

Biggles landed and taxied near the other machine. "I think it might be an idea if they couldn't take off, Bertie, don't you?" he suggested as the propeller swished to a stop. "Just pull the ring of the engine stopping control, will you? That should delay them long enough while they sort out why the engine won't start, if they want to make a speedy getaway."

Bertie chortled as he nipped across and closed the valve that cut off the engine air supply. When he came back, Biggles was locking the doors to his machine.

"I'd look pretty silly if they took this one because theirs wouldn't start," he remarked as he put the key in this pocket. "I've been made to look an idiot once today. I don't want to make a habit of it."

They made their way to the mine. Just as they came in sight of the buildings, they saw Canton come out of one of the huts and walk across to a jeep parked outside. He seemed to be staggering under a heavy load. The suspension of the jeep was already near bottoming under the weight of its cargo.

Biggles ducked out of sight, dragging Bertie with him. "We were just in time," he breathed. "They're still loading the gold on the jeep."

"But how are we going to stop them, old boy?" Bertie wanted to know. "They're both sure to be armed and we don't have a gun between us."

Biggles thought for a moment. "If we can stop them using the jeep, we shall have an advantage. He took a quick peek. "I thought as much, Canton's gone back for more. Greed," he said, shaking his head, "it's always their undoing. Come on!" With that he raced across to the jeep and flung up the bonnet. A quick jerk and the rotor arm was removed. Biggles flung it as far away as he could before he dropped the panel back in place. Seizing Bertie by the arm he drew him back behind the corner of the building to await events.

Canton came out with another load of ingots. Von Stalhein strolled out behind him.

"That is enough now," ordered the Prussian. "Let us get back to the aircraft. I don't think it will take Bigglesworth long to work out that we sent him in the wrong direction."

"He'll have no idea," scoffed Canton. "It was a clever trick giving that lad a false message to take across."

"You don't know him the way I do," stated von Stalhein. "The man has an uncanny knack of turning up when you least expect him."

Canton got behind the wheel and pressed the starter. He looked surprised when there was no response from the engine. He tried again while von Stalhein went white with fury.

"I can't understand it," muttered Canton. "It started before."

"That's because it had its rotor arm before," Biggles told him, stepping out from behind the building. "The game's up, von Stalhein." He dodged back smartly as the German produced an automatic. A bullet smacked against the wall. Biggles crouched down and risked a peep from a different position. Both Canton and von Stalhein had gone.

"Go back to the machines, Bertie," ordered Biggles. "I'll look around here and see if they're still in the mine."

As Bertie hurried off, Biggles risked another look. No missiles came his way. Cautiously he emerged from the shelter of the building and made his way to the office. There were three people in there, tied up with tape over their mouths. Biggles freed the nearest to him and told him to untie the others.

"Who …?" the man started to say, but Biggles had disappeared through the door. He rounded the corner of the building and caught sight of Canton running along the edge of a large tank. Biggles called to him to stop and the man looked round. Biggles ran towards him and was closing when a shot rang out, missing him by inches. Canton teetered on the edge. Whether he lost his balance or whether he had been hit, Biggles was not certain, but the effect was the same. With a scream he fell into the tank and was lost to view.

"He's had it," commented an Australian voice behind him and Biggles looked round to see the man he had freed. "That's cyanide in that agitator tank. We use it to leach the gold out of the pulp."

"He had it coming to him," remarked Biggles dispassionately. "I shan't shed any tears on his account. Have you seen the other man?" he asked.

The Australian shook his head. "The shot seemed to come from over by the transport shed," he remarked.

"Transport shed?" echoed Biggles. "How many vehicles do you keep in there?"

"Two or three trucks, a Ute and a couple of jeeps," was the disturbing answer. As if to settle Biggles' query a jeep came tearing round the corner and screamed through the main gates, heading down the Mary River valley. Biggles glimpsed von Stalhein at the wheel and knew that he had lost him. By the time he had got back to the machine, started up and taken off, von Stalhein could have ditched the jeep and been anywhere, but he knew he had to try. When he had introduced himself he asked his informant if he could use the telephone to contact the local police so as to organise a search.

"The lines are down," the man told him laconically. "I reckon they cut them before the job."

Biggles nodded and lit a cigarette. "Erich is thorough," he remarked. "I'll have to set it in motion when I get back to Archerfield, but after all this time, I don't hold out much hope. At least you got your gold back," he told the man, smiling.

"Yeah," said the miner. "Pretty nippy work, that. I must admit it was a shocker when they just walked in and held us up. Ice cool it was."

Biggles stubbed out his cigarette and left. He was anxious to get back to Archerfield before the light went. He needed to organise a search, although deep down he felt it was pointless. He also wanted to know if Algy had been in touch again. As soon as he was airborne Biggles got in touch with the airfield and gave them the details of the attempted robbery with a request to contact the local police about searching for von Stalhein. Knowing he could do no more, Biggles concentrated on getting back as quickly as he could.

He landed just as the sun was setting and hurried over to the office. There was an envelope with his name on it waiting to be collected.


	14. Chapter 14

**Ginger In Australia**

**Chapter 14**

**Final Curtain**

Biggles held the letter in his hand for a moment, hesitating. Then, knowing no amount of hesitation would change the outcome if it were bad news, he ripped the envelope open and took out the single sheet of paper.

Bertie, watching, saw a mixture of emotion flit across his face and waited to hear what Algy had to say.

Biggles was silent so long Bertie had to ask, "what does it say, old boy? How's Ginger? Has Algy seen him? Will he be alright?"

Biggles looked at him sombrely. "Algy's seen him," he admitted. "He's still unconscious, but there is some slight progress. The doctor's hopeful. The problem is the concussion coming on top of all the other things." He passed his hand over his face and yawned. "I'm tired. I'll have to get some sleep before I fly down there or I'll end up in the bush. That wouldn't help anybody," he murmured dryly.

Bertie agreed. He was finding it hard to keep his eyes open. They went into town and booked into a hotel, intending to make an early start in the morning. Biggles rang the hospital from his room and managed to have a word with Algy.

"He doesn't seem so deeply unconscious now," Algy told him, clutching at straws. "I've been talking to him, although he doesn't know I'm here. I did think he squeezed my hand, but it could have been just a muscle spasm."

"I'll be down there first thing tomorrow," promised Biggles. "Let's hope there'll be some improvement overnight."

He put the telephone down and went to bed. Although he was tired, sleep refused to come for a long time. Images of Ginger chased themselves through his head and he could not get rid of them. He thought about the first time they had met in the hut on the railway embankment1, and about how he had been impressed by the boy's resilience and resourcefulness. He had watched Ginger grow up, mentally if not in any great measure physically, and had seen him experience the pain of love and loss. Eventually the strain of the day's events took its toll and Biggles fell into an uneasy sleep haunted by the sight of Ginger grey and bloodstained lying in the outback.

Dawn saw them heading back for Thargomindah and by nine o'clock they had joined Algy at Ginger's bedside. Ginger's face was pale and smooth, his wound carefully dressed and tended, his hair neatly brushed; he could have been asleep. By contrast Algy was unshaven and looked as though he hadn't slept since Biggles had departed in search of von Stalhein.

"Last time, when Ginger got shot in the head2, he wasn't out as long as this," Algy remarked worriedly. "He was up and about in no time."

"Last time he got treatment straightaway," Biggles reminded him. "I flew him back in the Dragon, then we used O'Neilson's car to drive him to the jetty before we could fly him to hospital in Port Stanley. This time he was lost in the outback for a day before he could get help. That's bound to make a difference."

Biggles looked at his cousin critically, noticing his bloodshot eyes and general air of weariness. He made Algy take a rest, pointing out that they were there now in case Ginger woke up.

Algy rubbed his eyes wearily, acknowledging he needed sleep. "There were times when I could quite happily have got in bed beside Ginger," he confessed. "Sitting on a hard chair is no fun." He went off to find a hotel for a few hours well deserved rest.

Biggles settled himself at the bedside and took Ginger's hand. It was limp and lifeless.

"Talk to him, old boy," urged Bertie. "He may not be able to respond, but he can hear you. We used to get quite a few people concussed out hunting. I got to be a dab hand at dealing with it," he murmured.

"I don't know what to say," confessed Biggles.

"Say anything. Tell him about what happened. Tell him you're worried about him but he'll be alright. Tell him about the past. It doesn't matter, just talk to him."

Awkwardly Biggles started to tell Ginger about the raid on the opal convoy, feeling he was wasting his time. Bertie chipped in, talking to Ginger as if he were his old self. Biggles stiffened. He thought Ginger's hand had twitched in his. Algy had said that, he recalled. With more hope he continued his narrative. As the time passed he became more and more convinced that Ginger was coming out of his coma.

"You're right, Bertie," he exclaimed. "I think he can hear what's going on."

Bertie smiled. "I may look like a silly ass," he told Biggles, "but sometimes I do know what I'm talking about."

Ginger moved his head and made a slight sound but there was a long way to go before he regained consciousness proper.

The sun had set in a blaze of glory and Algy had rejoined the comrades refreshed from his rest before Ginger's eyes fluttered open. He stared uncomprehendingly at Biggles and then vaguely at Algy and Bertie in turn.

"Welcome back, laddie," Biggles greeted him with a smile. "You've been away a long time."

Ginger looked puzzled. "What are you doing here?" he croaked eventually. His eyes focussed on the hospital room. "Where am I?"

Briefly Biggles told him what had happened to him and why he was in hospital.

"I don't remember," muttered Ginger vaguely, his hand to his head. "I can't think."

"You're going to be like that for a while," Bertie told him. "You have to take things easy while you're getting better. You can't rush it. You need to get plenty of sleep and rest during the day. Light duties only, I'm afraid."

Bertie proved to be accurate in his diagnosis. Eventually Ginger made a complete recovery, but at first he suffered from frequent low grade headaches and he was grounded for a while until he could pass the medical.

As Bertie remarked when Ginger was finally given a clean bill of health: "I told you so, old boy. I'm an expert on being knocked out. It's happened to me so many times."

They all laughed at the seriousness of his expression and Bertie looked pained.

1 See Biggles And The Black Peril

2 See Biggles In The Argentine


End file.
